


Snippets

by nickhellagay



Series: Forces of Attraction [1]
Category: Prestuplenie i nakazanie | Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Possibly eventual R/R, Pre-Canon, Snippets, University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:43:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickhellagay/pseuds/nickhellagay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He had spotted him as he had stretched his arms and leaned backwards slightly, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of his eye. He wasn't completely sure what it was with him that caught his attention"</p><p>Snippets of Rodya and Dmitri's lives as students in Saint Petersburg. Pre-canon. Possibly pre-slash and eventual R/R.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snippets

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So, I'm completely new to ao3, and this is my first attempt at fanfic in several years. Enjoy!

The first time Dmitri Prokofich Razumikhin noticed him, was at the very first day of their studies, close to the end of the introduction lecture. He had given up paying attention halfway into it, figuring this was all useless information for him. He was merely a student of linguistic. Meet for the lectures, hand in the essays. Easy!

He had spotted him as he had stretched his arms and leaned backwards slightly, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of his eyes. He wasn't completely sure what it was with him that caught his attention.

The young man was sitting by himself at the very last row, diagonally two or three rows or so away from himself and he had to turn his head slightly backwards to get a better look. He seemed to be fairly close to Dmitri's own age, a bit above average height and with wavy, dark-blonde hair. Dmitri could tell, even from this distance, that he was unusually good-looking.

What intrigued him, however, was the way this man carried himself. His whole posture radiated a desire to be left alone, the way he hovered over the piece of paper in his hands (letter from home? Rent that needs to be paid?), his handsome face locked in a permanent scowl. While not entirely pleasant, Dmitri felt himself drawn to the man, wanting to know more about him.

He must have been staring for the remaining of the lecture, for suddenly, people around him abruptly stood up to leave the room. Dmitri hurriedly swept his equipment into a worn-out sack. With a last, lingering look at the other man, who rather seemed in a hurry to leave, he too got up and headed for the door.

* * *

Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov was not, by any means, present in this lecture hall willingly. Or in this university. Or in this city. Or in this _life_ , for that matter. So, when the lecture had finally ended with a "welcome to a new term!", it had been a relief beyond measure to finally get up from the wooden bench and get home as quickly as possible.

  
No, Rodion, had not been one to voluntarily leave everything he had known behind, and go to Saint Petersburg for his law studies. If his mother would just listen, he would still have been with her and his younger sister, taking whatever work he could find while his sister fulfilled her duties as a governess; every kopek they earned spent on tending to their dearest mother. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna, while aging too quickly for her son's liking and slowly growing weaker, had been quite persistent. Her first-born was to go off to a big city to get an education, eventually surpassing his late father in the means of social ranks. She would hear of nothing else, even if took her whole pension to pay for the tuition.

He sighed as he got trapped in the crowded corridors outside the lecture hall, clenching the letter from his sister in a tight grip. "Make some friends!" she had written. "Enjoy the city life!" _Well, Dunya, it's easier said than done... It is you who should have gone here, you would love every minute of it...  
_ Rodion did not particularly like to socialize with people, especially not people his own age. And the students at this university were definitely on the very bottom of his choices of peers. There was no way he would associate with the privileged, obnoxious upper-class of the student body, and the poorer students - too damn optimistic for their own good. He would certainly not be around to see their hopes crushed beneath the merciless feet of this rotten society.

"Excuse me, sir.."  
  
He turned around to face a fellow student who must have been in the same year, as he appeared to have come out from the same introduction lecture. He was several inches taller than Rodion, lanky and with unruly dark hair that could probably need a slight trim. _Not that_ I'm _the one to speak on that matter..._ He had a nice face, angular in shape with fair skin and a pair of mild, blue eyes. He dressed nicely, the clothes seemed new although the well-worn worker's cap in his right hand hinted that he had spent more than he should on these clothes and would have to make them last for as long as possible. Rodion felt a pang of empathy on the discovery; he too would not afford new clothing anytime soon.

"You lost this," said the man with the kind eyes, warmth radiating from the deep voice. Rodion's glance fell from the man's face to the hand he was holding out, a small, worn leather pouch resting in his palm. His heart skipped a beat upon the discovery that it was indeed his. Shaking ever so slightly, he reached out to take it, inwardly scowling himself for losing it in the first place, as it contained this month's rent and savings, as well as a ring Dunya had given him as a parting gift. "Thank you," he replied. As his fingers closed around the pouch, they brushed against the other man's palm. His skin seemed exceedingly smooth for a pair of worker's hands, he noted. Shrugging of the thought, he put the pouch into his pocket this time, rather than hanging it around his neck, making sure it was properly tucked down at the bottom.

He noticed the man was still holding out his hand. "Dmitri Razumikhin," he said, his smile ever-present in his voice and eyes. Rodion figured it would be impolite not to reciprocate, briefly recalling a memory of his sister whacking him over the head as children. She would have wanted him to make an effort, and this fellow seemed pleasant enough. "Rodion Raskolnikov," he replied, taking the hand offered. Razumikhin had a firm handshake, and again Rodion caught himself noticing how soft his skin was where he imagined callouses from hard labour.   
  
"Rodion, eh?" Razumikhin's smile grew wider, like he had no worries in this world. Normally, it would have annoyed Rodion to death, but Razumikhin did not strike him as one of the spoiled rotten upper class students. "You're not from here, are you?" he continued. "You don't speak like you're from Petersburg."  
  
Rodion shook his head. "Not from here. Chased from the countryside by my mother to 'pursue a career'.." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Listen, I..." he stopped in his tracks, suddenly feeling his chest tighten with discomfort. The situation caught up with him. He, Rodion Romanovich, was standing in a crowded university corridor, days away from home and family, attempting to make conversation with a stranger, which, no matter how pleasant he might find this Dmitri Rauzmikhin, was simply not something he _did._ "I got to go. Thank you for the help!" He flashed what he hoped was a friendly enough smile and turned on his heel to run.  
  
"Oi! You reckon I'll see you around sometime?" He stopped in his tracks, turning around. Razumikhin was still standing there. Forcing down a smile on his lips, Rodion merely raised a hand to wave, before disappearing among the hundreds of students.

* * *

Dmitri shook his head, trying to process what had just happened. "Strange fellow," he muttered to himself. The brief conversation had not left him any less intrigued by this Raskolnikov person. Upon closer examination, the man was indeed exceptionally handsome, or rather, Dmitri found him downright beautiful to look at. His face had fine, almost feminine features, and his eyes were this shade of dark brown that you wouldn't expect with a light hair colour. Raskolnikov had turned out to be quite a bit shorter than him, with a slim build and graceful, cat-like movements.

Dmitri suspected he was a bit on the thin side, having had that hollow expression on his face indicating a lack of food or sleep or both. Despite his attempt at looking collected, Raskolnikov had looked more than a little at loss, and Dmitri had felt this urge to bring him home and make sure he ate and slept properly. City life could be hard on people, he knew that first hand. It would certainly not be the first time Dmitri had taken somebody home for a meal, despite not really being able to afford it...  
  
In the end, the handsome, slightly worn-out student from the countryside remained as intriguing as ever. To Dmitri, he had come across as the kind of person that never allowed himself to have fun, but would rather work himself to death. He shook his head, determined not letting that happen.

Somehow, he would make that Raskolnikov fellow loosen up.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This first "drabble" turned out longer than I planned. But ah, hell! Let's just see where I'll go with this :)


End file.
